The Weeping Waxwork
by charleygirl
Summary: A case brought by the director of a famous waxworks may be just the distraction a bored and depressed Holmes is looking for... COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This is a work of fiction written by a fan for the enjoyment of other fans. Though Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum features heavily in this story, the members of the family featured are my own creation and bear no resemblance to any of the real Tussauds, living or dead. I have used as much accuracy in my representation of the museum's history as possible, though I have stuck to Madame Tussaud's own slightly suspect version of her life story, as this would have been known to the public at the time. Anything that occurs within the confines of the exhibition is my own invention, and takes place amongst fictional characters. None of this really happened, and no slights or accusations are intended.

This fic follows _Jack In The Green_.

**Disclaimer:** Holmes, Watson et all are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and though they are no longer in copyright they still don't belong to me.

* * *

**THE WEEPING WAXWORK**

**CHAPTER ONE**

When Holmes and I first moved into Baker Street we had a rather illustrious neighbour. Madame Tussaud's famous wax museum had for some years been resident not far from our rooms, at the Baker Street Bazaar, and almost every time I passed the door I told myself that one afternoon I would pay the two shilling entrance fee and see the much-talked-about models for myself. Life with Holmes being so hectic, however, I never had, and in 1884 the business moved to a purpose-built establishment a short distance away in the Marylebone Road, conveniently close to the underground station.

Though those in charge of the exhibition had requested at regular intervals over the years that Holmes sit to one of their sculptors, he had always refused, quite rightly claiming that, though he enjoyed a certain celebrity thanks to my writings, the accompanying illustrations disguised his features enough for him to continue to operate in relative anonymity. Should his likeness be placed on display in the most celebrated waxworks in the world, his career would be over in an instant.

Thus neither of us had, despite its close proximity to our home, ever darkened the doors of Tussaud's, and things would likely have remained that way had Mr Louis Tussaud, the director of the exhibition himself, not arrived upon our doorstep one murky evening in October.

* * *

Cases were scarce for Holmes that autumn, a temporary lull in the stream of clients who had come flocking to our door ever since my friend's unexpected return to London three years before. As always when idle, Holmes had become depressed and irritable, his increasing bad temper forcing me out of the house for extended periods when I was not employed acting as locum for a colleague in Paddington. Even Mrs Hudson did not escape the sharp edge of his tongue, and informed me only that morning that if she was spoken to in such a manner again she would decamp to her sister's and we could shift for ourselves.

"You may tell Mr Holmes that from me, sir, and see how he likes it," she declared before vanishing into her own domain with his refused breakfast on a tray. It was no idle threat, and thus it was in my own interest to prevent such an occurrence, lest we be left to the mercy of my camp cooking, not practised for nearly twenty years.

At a loose end, I spent the day at my club, having managed to leave the house without encountering my fellow lodger. By the time I returned it was growing dark, and the beginnings of a storm were gathering, rain pattering upon the step as I let myself into the house. Above me I heard the mournful wailing of Holmes's violin and groaned inwardly as the tune (if it could truly be called such) climbed higher and higher in pitch, the notes swirling around in an obscure and complex pattern. Clever it might have been, but easy on the ear it most certainly was not.

Mrs Hudson met me in the hall, tutting and shaking her head when I enquired as to Holmes's mood.

"I don't know what's come over him, Doctor, really I don't," she said as she followed me up the stairs. "It's a wonder he's still alive, he's eaten so little these past few weeks."

"He is bored, Mrs Hudson," I replied, "He needs a client, a new case."

She sniffed. "Any normal person would take up a nice hobby," she pronounced. "You want to tell him that, sir."

Privately, I thought that I would be unwise to make such a suggestion to Holmes if I valued my future health and wellbeing, but I did not say as much to Mrs Hudson, instead merely assuring her that I would do what I could.

"If that's all it would take, he should have pulled himself out of that mood by now," she said as I hung up my coat and hat, "He had a client only this morning."

"A client?" I repeated, my shock such that I dropped my gloves. "Today?"

"A dapper little Frenchman. He was quite distressed when Mr Holmes sent him off with a flea in his ear. He can't be _that_ bored, sir, if he can refuse work so easily," said Mrs Hudson disapprovingly before she retreated below.

I found it hard to believe that Holmes would dismiss a case out of hand when he had no work, and determined to discover for myself exactly what had happened. As I took hold of the door handle I heard a loud snapping sound and a shout of fury followed by a stream of curses in French from the room beyond. Steeling myself for an unpleasant encounter, I opened the door.

The sitting room appeared to have been visited by a whirlwind. Papers littered every available surface: the table, the sofa, even the window sills were covered in folios and scrapbooks, disgorging their contents onto the floor. News-sheets littered the rug, trampled underfoot as my friend paced back and forth before the fire. Holmes's precious Stradivarius lay abandoned on his desk, one of the strings quite clearly snapped and curling away from the bridge.

Holmes himself was haggard and drawn, the dark circles which had taken up residence beneath his eyes even more pronounced than before. Thick black hair fell over his forehead in an untidy mop, apparently disregarded when he rose that morning. He was wrapped in the familiar defensive armour of his mouse-coloured dressing gown, the day clothes beneath crumpled as though he had slept in them, or rather attempted to sleep as I was sure he had not had a good night's rest for some time. His appearance was so at odds with his usual cat-like neatness that I could only view it as a physical manifestation of his disturbed state of mind. As I watched, his thin, nervous fingers searched the mantelpiece for a match to put to the cigarette he held in his other hand.

"So," he said when the search bore fruit and he inhaled a long draught of smoke, "You have at last returned from your self-imposed seclusion."

I felt my eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. "_My_ self-imposed seclusion? You are the one who has not left the house in nigh-on a fortnight!"

"Seclusion from _me_," he clarified, throwing himself into his chair on the opposite side of the hearth. "You have been avoiding me."

"Do you honestly blame me?" I asked unearthing my own armchair from beneath a pile of documents and sitting down. "You have bee prowling this room like a caged tiger for days."

"I cannot deny it. My mind is racing itself to pieces with no problem to occupy it."

"Mrs Hudson tells me you had a client this morning."

He let out a humourless bark of laughter. "Ah, yes, Monsieur Hergé. I regretfully informed him that I could not assist."

"Surely, with no other matters on hand you must be glad of any diversion," I said, and received a baleful stare in return.

Holmes withdrew a card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to me. When I opened my mouth to query the action he merely pointed to the white oblong and nodded. I turned my eyes to the legend printed upon the pasteboard surface:

_Monsieur Antoine Hergé and his Incredible Performing Poodles_

"I believe that should tell you all you need to know about the case," said Holmes.

"What is Monsieur Hergé's problem?"

"Apart from his choice of profession? One of his poodles has gone missing. Apparently it is a unique animal, able to recite the alphabet, no less. I did point out to him that a talking dog must be so rare it would be easily spotted asking directions on the streets of London, but he did not appreciate the observation."

"I should think not. You could at least have made an effort to help the man, Holmes," I said, aware that I was taking my life in my hands as I did so.

His face contracted, and he exhaled a great cloud of blue smoke, black brows drawing sharply together. "Do the great unobservant public really believe I have nothing better to do with my time than chase around the metropolis after lost dogs?" he demanded. "Is this the depth to which my practice has finally sunk?"

"It would have occupied your attention for a few hours."

"I pray that I am not yet reduced to scouring the streets for a talking canine in order to gain some entertainment," he snapped, glaring at me and drawing his dressing gown closer about his spare frame. "I am not that desperate for a diversion."

"No doubt the loss is important to Monsieur Hergé," I said.

"I have directed him to Scotland Yard. They have far more experience in the department of missing pets than I if their swift recovery of the Countess of Neston's cockatiel is anything to go by."

"Holmes, you know full well that the bird merely happened to fly in through Gregson's open window," I told him, knowing that the denizens of the Yard would be less than impressed to find that a horde of distraught owners were likely to descend upon them in search of their beloved animals.

Thankfully, Mrs Hudson chose that moment to enter bearing a tray and I was spared any further discussion of the subject. I could smell something delicious, and my stomach rumbled in anticipation.

"I did not ring for supper," Holmes declared in annoyance at this intrusion.

"I know," our good landlady replied, nonchalantly laying the table. "However, though you may be determined upon starving yourself, Mr Holmes, I expect the Doctor is famished. The food at that club can hardly be called nourishing."

"I am extremely hungry, Mrs Hudson, thank you," I said, hurrying to take my seat. Holmes favoured us both with a venomous glare and lit another cigarette, stubbing out the remains of the first in an empty coffee cup at his elbow.

"You are very welcome, sir," said Mrs Hudson, removing the lid from a dish of stew. "There is enough for two, should Mr Holmes feel like ending his abstinence today. God knows, he'll be a walking skeleton before long if he doesn't." With this announcement hanging in the air, she shot Holmes a pointed glance and withdrew.

"Mrs Hudson is right, old man," I said when the door had closed behind her. "You should eat. You'll do your nerves no good at all carrying on like this."

"Food does not interest me. It is my brain which needs sustenance, not my body," came the expected reply.

I sighed, and turned my attention to my own meal. Though the spectre of the cocaine no longer hovered over us, he had fallen swiftly back into those other habits I recalled and deplored from the leaner days of the past. In truth, I had succumbed to a feeling of trepidation as to his reaction to such enforced idleness now that he could not longer take refuge in the drug – I was thankful that so far Holmes had behaved exactly as he always had before, albeit with an even sharper edge to his temper. Though he was quite clearly sleeping badly, his disturbed nights had not woken me, and I could only hope that he was managing to keep those black demons which plagued him at such times at bay.

"Your brain will not function if your body is deprived and exhausted," I told him. "For goodness's sake, sit down and eat. There is far too much here for one."

He looked mutinous for a moment before drifting over to the window to stare out at Baker Street. It seemed that there was nothing stirring amongst the evening traffic, as he reached up and pulled the blind sharply down to hide the rain that splashed against the glass. His meanderings finally brought him to the table, and I poured him a glass of wine.

"Where have they gone, Watson?" he asked, slumping down in the chair opposite mine. "What has happened to the people with strange and perplexing problems? Has the public finally become tired of me, or have the criminal classes merely lost their ingenuity?"

"I doubt it is either," I said. "Every profession has its slack time, Holmes, even mine. Why should yours be any exception?"

He gave me a rueful smile. "I suppose there is some truth in what you say. But I would welcome any difficulty at this moment, however trivial."

"Monsieur Hergé - " I began, but he silenced me with a look.

"Not _that_ trivial, Watson. Something odd, something recherché, is what I need just now. Something to tempt my jaded palate. I - " Holmes cocked his head to the side suddenly, listening. "There is someone at the door."

I listened, too, having heard nothing until that moment but the steady patter of the rain upon the window. Sure enough, the front doorbell rang loudly below us. "Who could that be at this hour?" I wondered.

Holmes was immediately on his feet and disappeared into his bedroom faster than I had seen him move in weeks. Before I could say anything more there was a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson looked in.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Holmes, but there is a gentleman downstairs requesting an interview," she said.

"His name, Mrs Hudson?" my friend called, slamming the door of his wardrobe. He re-entered the room a moment later, shrugging on his coat, having washed his face and tidied himself up somewhat.

"Mr Tussaud, from the waxworks," our landlady replied. "He says he has an unusual matter to put before you."

An old familiar gleam ignited in Holmes's weary grey eyes, and his nostrils flared in anticipation. I looked at my half-eaten dish of stew and guessed that I would be reduced to a sandwich at some late hour to sate my hunger, as he said eagerly,

"Show him up, Mrs Hudson, show him up!"

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to those who have reviewed, they are very much appreciated as always. I'm glad the poodles provided a giggle. :)**

**I'm fascinated by the history of waxworks, so this story had to happen sooner or later. **

**For disclaimers see Chapter One.**

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**THE WEEPING WAXWORK**

**CHAPTER TWO**

Between us, Holmes and I hurriedly tried to put the room in some sort of order, shoving papers and commonplace books behind chairs and under the table. Holmes took a huge pile of news-sheets and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor of his bedroom, quickly shutting the door to hide the resultant mess. I was pushing a teetering pile of folios beneath the sofa when Mrs Hudson returned with our unexpected visitor.

Tussaud's had been one of the sights of London for fifty years, and I knew that the director of such a prosperous business would not be calling upon us without good reason. Mr Louis Tussaud, grandson of the great Madame Marie, was a man of middling height in late middle-age, his round face dominated by a pair of large brown eyes and a shock of snow-white hair, with impressive whiskers to match. He had the air of a successful, if somewhat harassed, man of business: impeccably dressed but with obvious lines of stress upon his forehead.

"I am sorry to bother you at this hour, Mr Holmes," he said, his gaze sweeping around the room and resting upon the abandoned dishes on the table. "I have interrupted your supper - "

"Think nothing of it, Mr Tussaud," Holmes declared, waving a dismissive hand. His lethargy had dissipated in an instant, the demons banished by the most effective medicine available: work. "Pray sit down and tell us what brings you here in advance of closing time. It must be something of importance for you to have walked from the Marylebone Road in such weather without a pair of galoshes."

I glanced at the clock, and also surreptitiously at Tussaud's ankles – his trouser legs were soaked, and the time was a quarter to eight. The waxworks did not usually close until nine o'clock in the evening.

"Quite so, Mr Holmes, quite so," said Tussaud as he sat down upon the sofa. "My daughter asked that I come and lay the facts before you. It did not seem like a matter for the police, and as we are practically neighbours - "

Holmes smiled and threw himself into his armchair. "Yes, indeed. Do tell me – I am all attention." He folded his hands together and closed his eyes.

Tussaud looked surprised at this behaviour, and glanced at me in consternation. I knew the pose of old, and that despite appearances to the contrary it did indeed signify that Holmes was listening intently – I nodded encouragingly, so the waxworks director shrugged and said, "Well, I am sure you are aware of my family's history, gentlemen – my grandmother's business was founded upon her survival of the Revolution in France, and we have always endeavoured to maintain that connection. In addition to the wax models she brought with her from Paris, we have built up an extensive collection of items associated with Napoleon Bonaparte, which has always proved popular with visitors."

"So I believe," I said, recalling the recommendation of the exhibition to me by one of my patients some years ago. He had been quite delighted at being allowed to sit in the very coach captured from the emperor on the battlefield of Waterloo. I privately doubted the long-term survival of such relics if they continued to be treated as playthings.

"My youngest daughter looks after the models' clothes," Tussaud continued. "We are a family firm, always have been, and we all have our own speciality. My son Jacques and daughter Louise are accomplished sculptors, for example. Madeleine is our costumier – every morning before we open to the public she checks that all the clothes are clean and tidy and as they should be. She takes particular care of the French royal family, one of our most enduring tableaux."

"King Louis XVI, Queen Marie Antoinette, the Dauphin – later Louis XVII – and Madame Royale, who became Duchess de Anglouemé," said Holmes swiftly.

Tussaud looked impressed. "Exactly so, Mr Holmes."

"Holmes also has a French grandmother," I told him, earning myself a scowl from my friend.

"The likenesses were modelled by the late Madame Marie Tussaud, were they not?" he asked.

"They were indeed, from life at Versailles before the Revolution. During the Terror my grandmother was forced by the Commune to make death masks of the royal couple following their executions, but those are displayed separately in the exhibition," said Tussaud. "However, it was not of our history that I came to speak. The fact is, Mr Holmes, that my daughter Madeleine believes the galleries may be haunted!"

"Haunted?" I repeated in surprise.

Holmes opened one eye. "Do you agree with this pronouncement?"

"No, Mr Holmes, I do not," the director said firmly. "Though we may display the likenesses of many famous figures from times past, I am sure that they would have better things to do in the hereafter than skulk around our humble exhibition."

"Exactly what form does this alleged haunting take?"

"The wax model of Marie Antoinette has been found in the morning with tears upon its cheeks. I do not believe it to be possible for a wax image to cry, Mr Holmes, no matter what the apparent evidence from religious shrines around the world," Tussaud said. "I have never heard of such a thing happening in any wax museum before, but Madeleine is adamant that she has seen the tears, and our night-watchman has apparently heard weeping in the Grand Chamber as he makes his rounds. What am I to make of that?"

"What indeed..?" murmured Holmes, smiling slightly.

"How long has this strange phenomena been going on?" I asked, quite amazed by the story.

"For a week, so I am told. I have been in France for the past few days giving my opinion on an exhibition in Paris, or I would have been told of it sooner. At first my daughter thought that there might be a leak in the ceiling above the Marie Antoinette figure, but she had the maintenance men check the roof and they found nothing. It was only after Harrison mentioned the noises he had heard that she came to me," Tussaud explained. "She specifically asked that I should put the matter before you, but I can only apologise for bringing such a trivial matter to your attention."

There was a long pause when our visitor ceased to speak – Holmes said not a word, his brow furrowed in concentration, fingers steepled before his lips. Tussaud watched him for some moments, perplexed at his lack of reaction, and finally started up from his seat, declaring,

"I am sorry to have wasted your time, Mr Holmes - "

"Not at all, not at all!" my friend exclaimed, leaping up to take the director by the elbows and lead him back to the sofa. "This story is most intriguing to be sure. Your night-watchman is quite certain that it was a human voice he heard in the gallery?"

"So he believes. Harrison is not a fanciful man."

Holmes nodded. "When would it be convenient for me to view the Marie Antoinette figure and speak with both your daughter and Mr Harrison?" he enquired.

Tussaud's face blossomed with surprise, his bushy eyebrows rising towards his hairline. "You take this matter seriously?"

"Indeed I do, Mr Tussaud. It contains some most interesting points."

"Well, tomorrow morning before the exhibition opens would be the best time for you to come – my daughter will be checking the figures and Harrison does not end his shift until eight o'clock."

"Excellent." Holmes smiled broadly. "Shall we say a quarter to eight, then?"

Tussaud agreed, and the arrangement was made, much to my dismay.

"Holmes, a quarter to eight in the morning - " I protested when our client had left us to return to his wax charges. "That is - "

My friend's smile became a smirk. "My dear fellow, I can easily go alone. If you prefer to remain within the arms of Morpheus I would not dream of preventing you. But - "

I sighed, shaking my head. "Of course not."

"Bravo, Watson!" He tapped my shoulder delightedly and skipped past me to the door, throwing it open and practically singing out, "Mrs Hudson! _Mrs Hudson_…"

"Mr Holmes?" The good woman's voice, heavy with resignation, came drifting up the stairs.

Holmes leaned over the banisters. "Would you possibly have something a little more substantial for a late supper?" he asked with a persuasive smile and a wheedling tone he sometimes used upon me. "I suddenly find I have an appetite."

There was a long pause. After her previous treatment, Mrs Hudson was not about to give in without a little resistance. "And what exactly did you have in mind, sir?" she enquired eventually.

"Well, I do seem to recall seeing a brace of pigeon in your basket this morning…"

"Pigeon? Mr Holmes, do you have any idea how long it will take to roast a bird? It will be nearly ten before you eat!"

"That is of no matter! Watson and I have other things to occupy us for the moment, do we not, Doctor?"

"Yes, yes, of course," I agreed, thinking wistfully of my now-cold stew and trying to ignore the rumbling that was still making itself felt in my stomach.

Mrs Hudson sighed, but I could imagine the smile that must have been trying to creep onto her face. "Very well, Mr Holmes."

"Thank you! Well, Watson," said he as he packed his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper, "what do you make of our client's tale?"

"Surely it is fantastical and utterly impossible," I said. "A waxwork is not a living thing – it cannot talk, move or weep."

"And yet there is something uncomfortably lifelike about a wax figure, is there not? There is that moment of uncertainty when one is not sure whether it _will_ move, just after we have glanced away."

"But it will not," I insisted. "It cannot!"

"Of course." His pipe drawing to his satisfaction, Holmes moved to the bookshelf above my desk and took down one of the biographical dictionaries which stood there. His long fingers flickered through the pages until he found whatever it was he sought. "Now, that is interesting."

"What is?" I asked, glancing at the table and wondering whether the cold stew was in any way still edible.

"The date, Watson, the date." He presented me with the book and tapped the open page. "Does that not strike you as significant?"

"No, why should it?" I looked at the entry, which was a rather long and involved one, my eyes searching for a likely set of numbers. At the foot of the page, a date did at last leap out at me: the 16th of October 1793. I returned to the top and realised that the piece was a history of Queen Marie Antoinette.

"In two days' time it is the anniversary of the French queen's execution," said Holmes.

"What of it? Surely there is no one living now who would wish to commemorate such an event!"

"You would be surprised, Watson. Remember your own initial assessment of the Six Napoleons affair?"

I blinked in surprise that he should mention my diagnosis, as he had swiftly dismissed it at the time. "The idée fix? You think we may be dealing with someone of diseased mind this time?"

He smiled slightly and shook his head. "I did not say that."

"Then what do you think?"

"At present, I think nothing. As I have said before, it is a capital mistake to theorise in advance of the facts. We shall see what Marie Antoinette herself can tell us tomorrow."

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Once again, many thanks for the reviews!**

**For disclaimers see Chapter One. The representation of the working area of Madame Tussaud's is mainly from my imagination.**

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**THE WEEPING WAXWORK**

**CHAPTER THREE**

And so it was that we presented ourselves punctually at a quarter to eight the following morning at the tradesman's entrance of Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum, the public doors not opened until nine o'clock sharp.

We were met by a small, timid woman in conservative clothes who introduced herself as Madeleine Tussaud, costumier and youngest daughter of the director. Her pale brown hair, slight build and the drab shade of her gown put me in mind of a wren, and her quick, darting movements were just as bird-like. She explained that her father thought it best she should show us the model exactly as she had found it that morning, and we would be joined there by Harrison the night-watchman.

"Thank you for coming, Mr Holmes," she said as she led us through the warren of passages and workrooms which lay behind the glossy veneer of the exhibition. On our journey I glimpsed rooms full of ghoulishly decapitated and discarded bodies in various states of undress; another which seemed to contain no more than shelf upon shelf of disembodied heads, the eyes of which all appeared to be directed at me; yet another packed with costumes of all kinds, rather like the tiring room of a prestigious theatre. It was certainly a fascinating, if somewhat unnerving, place.

"It is my pleasure, Miss Tussaud," Holmes replied, betraying none of the disquiet I myself felt. His eyes darted back and forth, taking in every detail of our surroundings.

"I do not think my father believes my story," the lady continued, a little nervously. "It is fanciful, I know, but I cannot deny what I have seen this past week."

"Your father told us you initially sought a rational explanation," I remarked, narrowly avoiding a collision with a gesticulating figure of George IV which was being pushed along the corridor on a trolley, the head lolling drunkenly to one side.

"Of course, Doctor Watson. What else could I do? I am not a person who usually believes in the supernatural."

"But the men who made the examination of the roof found nothing," said Holmes.

"Nothing at all. Above the Grand Chamber is a network of storerooms and offices, and no leak could be found in any of them. The ceiling directly over Marie Antoinette is also completely sound," Miss Tussaud replied. "It was when the workmen were making their investigations that Harrison came to me and told me he had heard someone crying in the chamber at night."

"Who has access to the building following the closure of the exhibition at nine o'clock?"

"Only the night-watchman and the porter who stays on duty at the entrance. We have had drunken attempts to liberate some of the figures in the past," she added in explanation. "My father of course has keys to all the doors, but he is only called out in an emergency after hours. Otherwise, his deputy has access to the main doors."

"This deputy being - ?"

"My brother Claude."

"So no one else would have been able to enter the building after hours?"

Miss Tussaud shook her head. "Even I would not be able to get inside without first securing the assistance of someone with a key."

"The porter and the night-watchman are I take it trustworthy men?"

"They have been with us many years and can be trusted implicitly."

Holmes nodded. "Quite so. Ah, this I take it is the end of the working area."

We quite abruptly had found ourselves in the public section of the building: only a green baize door separated slightly shabby and bustling back room from stately elegance. Via a long gallery we made our way through to the space termed the Grand Chamber, a large Rococo-style room lined with tall mirrors and liberally gilded, filled with carefully-posed tableaux of wax figures. Between these were set ottomans and comfortable seating for those who wished to meet and converse while viewing the models. Over the entrance was a small promontory, where the music stands and chairs led me to assume that at some time during the day an orchestra would provide added entertainment.

I knew that Holmes would not be interested in the identities of the wax portraits through which we made our way, but for my part I noticed amongst others Lord Nelson and the buxom Lady Hamilton; the Duke of Wellington; Florence Nightingale; the Swedish Nightingale, Jenny Lind; Ellen Terry and Henry Irving as their characters in Macbeth, and many more I will not try the reader's patience by listing here. The figures had been executed with the skilled delicacy of touch for which Tussaud's was justly famous. I found myself recalling my friend's words of the night before, and my own dismissive response – now, however, surrounded by such lifelike figures on all sides, I found myself wondering whether one of them might have moved just a little.

"These are new models taken from the original moulds made by my great-grandmother in Paris," said Miss Tussaud as we reached a group of four models set aside in an alcove. The king was seated, opulent in his coat of primrose satin, diamond-buckled shoes and powdered wig; behind and slightly to his right stood the queen, her towering headdress topped with the ostrich feathers familiar from many of her portraits. Before them, almost in an attitude of play, were their two children: the doomed Dauphin, Louis Charles, innocent and angelic; his sister Marie Thérese, the only member of the family to survive the Revolution, rather more serious.

"Exactly what form do these 'tears' take?" asked Holmes, his sharp eye running over the little family group.

"You may see for yourself, Mr Holmes – they appeared again this morning," Miss Tussaud responded.

I followed Holmes to the side of the French queen. To my surprise and astonishment, quite plainly upon her waxen cheeks were the tracks of teardrops. Water lingered around her eyelids and lashes, the slight upturn of her lips giving the impression that she was smiling through her grief.

I must have been staring open-mouthed at the sight, for Holmes glanced at me in amusement. "Any thoughts, Watson?" he enquired.

"Eh?" I shook myself, startled back to reality. "Oh…I have never seen anything like it. How is it achieved?"

"Not through any supernatural agency, of that I am sure," he replied as he reached inside his coat and withdrew his magnifying glass. He then proceeded to make an examination which anyone unaware of Holmes's general aversion to women may have found uncomfortable to watch. I had never seen him in such proximity to a member of the fair sex before, and am sure I will never see it again, his closeness on this occasion being entirely due to the fact that the woman in question was made of wax rather than living flesh.

Miss Tussaud watched his examinations with an understandable expression of bemusement. Holmes himself paid no attention to his audience, consumed with concentration as he peered intently into the French queen's face, and then proceeded to investigate every fold of her elaborate clothing.

This procedure went on for so long that at last I felt compelled to make some sort of conversation. "You say your great-grandmother made these models herself?" I asked our guide.

She nodded, coming alive a little when talking of her family's history. "They were sculpted at Versailles, in the years leading up to the Revolution. My great-grandmother was teacher of wax modelling to Madame Elisabeth, the king's sister. The moulds were brought to England at the turn of the century when Madame Marie decided to take the collection she had inherited from her mentor Monsieur Curtuis across the Channel to make some money. Before she settled here in London she spent more than thirty years travelling up and down the British Isles - she would exhibit in theatres and assembly rooms."

"And this exhibition grew from those humble beginnings?"

"Yes, indeed, although there were at least two grand salons in Paris in the 1770s and 80s. Even during the Terror one of them remained open, the heads of the wax figures changing almost as quickly as the real ones were removed by Madame Guillotine," said Miss Tussaud with a shudder. "My great-grandmother's prowess as a wax modeller was the only reason she was allowed to keep her own head. We have some of the death masks she made at the gravesides in the Chamber of Horrors, if you would care to see them."

I was wondering how best to respond to this grisly invitation when Holmes, evidently having completely his investigation of Marie Antoinette's person, said, "May we speak with Mr Harrison the night-watchman now?"

* * *

Miss Tussaud hurried off through the wax throng to fetch the man.

Left alone, Holmes dropped to the floor and began a minute examination of the expensive carpet, his lens barely an inch from its surface. Waiting for him to find whatever it was he was apparently expecting to find, I glanced around the large room, feeling uncomfortable and a little claustrophobic with so many glass eyes upon me. The mirrors hanging from every wall gave the impression that the space was many times bigger than was actually the case, the reflections continuing on into infinity as they bounced back and forth.

At length, Holmes sat back with a cry of triumph. I turned to see what he had discovered and found him lifting Marie Antoinette's voluminous skirts.

"Holmes!" I scolded, quite scandalised that he should do such a thing, even to a model. "Have a little respect, please!"

He rolled his eyes. "There is nothing beneath but wood and straw, Watson. Come and look," he said, handing me the glass and pointing to the carpet.

Reluctantly, I took the lens and crouched down to look. To my surprise, not only did Marie Antoinette have no feet, there being instead two sturdy beams of wood under her skirts, but there was also a very definite footprint upon the carpet which had been concealed by the hem of her dress.

"Made last night, I should say, given the consistency of the mud and the state of the weather," Holmes announced.

"But, surely it could just have been made by a late visitor," I objected.

"No, no, no, the model has been very carefully moved to hide it. You can see here the indentation in the pile of the carpet where her Gallic majesty is accustomed to stand. Someone shifted the figure ever so slightly to conceal this mark." Holmes tapped a finger thoughtfully against his lips. "Our nocturnal visitor is a clever woman."

"A woman?" I sat back upon my heels. "How can you possibly tell that?"

Holmes smiled slightly and reached into his pocket once more to draw out a tape measure, which he used to check the length of the footprint. "Seven and a half inches. And you see the delicately pointed toe and the faint impression of the heel? That style of boot was very fashionable some five or six years ago. If I am not mistaken, this light-footed lady, whoever she is, has come upon difficult times."

I would have asked him to explain further, but just then we were rejoined by Miss Tussaud, accompanied by a stocky, upright gentleman with a balding head and a crooked nose who could only be the exhibition's night-watchman.

"This is Mr Thomas Harrison," Miss Tussaud said. "He has worked for the firm for many years and is of exemplary character – you may believe his word to be the absolute truth."

"Thank you, Miss Tussaud," Holmes replied, and she withdrew, leaving us with Mr Harrison. An old soldier such as myself could immediately recognise the parade ground in the manner in which he stood at ease with his hands folded behind his back, and I was not surprised when Holmes said, "It must have been a bitter blow for you to have been invalided from the army at such a young age, though am sure your obvious talent in the ring made up for it in part."

Harrison looked dumbfounded for a moment, before a slow smile crept over his battered face. "I see it's just as they say, Mr Holmes. You're a wizard and that's a fact."

My friend gave that twitch of the lips which approximated a smile. "Were that the truth I would need no assistance in solving this mystery. It is no trick – your very person tells me all I need to know about you."

"Is that the truth? I never knew my body said so much, sir."

Holmes glances at me and arched an eyebrow. "Watson?"

"Your military bearing is obvious," I said, "as is the limp which is very pronounced in your right leg."

"And the fact that you are quite naturally and comfortably accommodating that limp makes it clear that the injury was inflicted some considerable time ago," Holmes added.

"That's quite true, sir, quite true," said Harrison, nodding. "There was an accident with the loading of a musket – Johnnie Raw put in too much powder and the thing went off early. Discharged a round straight into my thigh, it did. I was lucky not to lose the leg. But the boxing, sir?"

"Your upper body is considerably more developed than the lower. When I observe that you have quite the cauliflower ear and your nose has been broken in at least three places at different times, the matter becomes even simpler. Shall we?" Holmes gestured to a nearby ottoman, and we sat, Harrison looking a little uncomfortable at taking a rest in the main gallery when still on duty. "Will you tell me exactly what occurred in this room on the night you first heard the weeping?"

"Very well, sir. I come on duty when the exhibition closes at nine - it's my job to lock up and make sure there's no stragglers left behind in the galleries," the night-watchman said. "It's a lonely job, as you can imagine – me and the porter who stays on watch at the front entrance are the only living souls left in the building. There's some here not stayed above a week because they find it uncomfortable to be near the figures too long, but you gets used to them. We're old friends now – many's the night old Boney and I have shared a drink to keep out the cold."

"Quite. Do you patrol the building in a regular pattern every night?"

"I start on the ground floor and work my way up, check the offices and the workrooms and then come up the main staircase to the galleries. I come in here, move on to the Napoleon rooms and then finally the Horrors. That can set you hair on end in the dead of night, sir, believe you me!"

"I can imagine it would," I agreed with a shudder. "Not something I would like to do!"

Holmes ignored me. "And you make this circuit…?"

"Three times in a night, sir. It was on my second trip round that I heard a strange noise in here," said Harrison. "I called out, but there was no answer, so I turned on the lights."

"And you saw no one?"

"No one at all, sir. The next night it happened again, and again there was no one to be seen. It wasn't until the third time I heard it that I realised it was the sound of a woman crying. The following day I mentioned it to Mr Claude, but he just told me I must be imagining it."

"And so you told no one else until you became aware of Miss Madeleine Tussaud's discovery of tears upon the wax figure of Marie Antoinette."

"Exactly, sir. It seemed like too much of a coincidence."

Holmes nodded. "It was indeed. Tell me, what is your own theory as to the cause of these strange events?"

The old soldier was quiet for some moments before he looked most seriously at us both. "Ordinarily I'm not a fanciful man, Mr Holmes, but with no rational reason for the sounds I heard…I can only think that this place really is haunted!"

"I very much doubt that," said Holmes with another of his swift smiles. "If that were indeed the case then the solution would be quite beyond my means, and I do believe I will have the solution shortly."

Harrison looked surprised. "You do, sir? What do you think it is?"

"Ah, I regret that I cannot say as yet. I have several clues which I must put to the test before I can give anyone an answer. I will, however, need to speak with Miss Tussaud before I leave, if you would be so good as to show me the way..?" Holmes glanced at me. "I will meet you back at Baker Street, Watson."

With that he hurried off, and I returned to 221B alone, puzzled but relieved to be away from the fixed stares of the horribly life-like models. I remained there for an hour but Holmes did not reappear. He was still not back by the time I was due to start upon my rounds and so I left the house and took a cab to Paddington to begin my locum work.

I was away for most of the day, and when I did reach Baker Street once more it was raining. I was wet and cold and desperate for my dinner. By now I expected Holmes to have returned, and I was not disappointed in this.

What I did not expect to meet my eyes, however, in the centre of our dining table and surrounded by neatly-laid crockery and china, was a severed head.

**TBC**

* * *

_A/N: The official story of Madame Tussaud, from her own memoirs published in the middle of the nineteenth century, claims that she lived for some years at Versailles as tutor in wax modelling to Madame Elisabeth, and was on most intimate terms with the royal family. There is no evidence to support this - Marie Grosholtz, as she was at the time, appears nowhere on the pay lists for Versailles during those years. What is undisputed is that she modelled the king, queen and theit two children at some point, and those models remain on display today. It is also doubtful whether the stories of her being forced to take casts of the severed heads from the guillotine, crouched by the side of a mass grave in lamplight, are true. Though there are death masks of Revolutionaries such as Robespierre in the Chamber of Horrors, the heads of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were apparently not displayed until the mid 1800s. Both stories remain quoted as fact by Madame Tussaud's itself. I take as my reference_ Waxing Lyrical - The Life and Legend of Madame Tussaud_, by Kate Berridge, and_ Madame Tussaud_ by Pamela Pilbeam._


	4. Chapter 4

**Many thanks once again for those lovely reviews! :)**

**FoggyKnight, it is indeed possible to tell a boxer from their ears. The condition known as 'cauliflower ear' occurs after repeated trauma to the cartilage - blood clots develop under the skin, and if oxygen cannot reach the area the ear doesn't heal. Consequently the cartilage remains permanently misshapen, and can shrivel, giving the appearance of the top of a cauliflower, hence the term. I am indebted to Ear Help (UK) for that piece of information.**

**pebbles66, the history of waxworks has become one of my interests recently. I've been reading quite a bit about it, and the French Revolution the last few months. :)**

**Onwards and upwards. Things aren't going to get much better for Watson...**

* * *

**THE WEEPING WAXWORK**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

I believe it is in the main part due to my experiences on the battlefield that I did not cry out in alarm at the sight of the thing. Instead I took a step backwards, my hand still upon the doorknob, and bellowed for Holmes. After a very long moment he emerged from his bedroom, the _Evening Standard _open before his face as he peered intently at one of the pages.

"Good evening, Watson," he said absently without either a glance at me or the grisly object upon the table. "You could not find a cab for three streets, I perceive."

"That is not important, Holmes," I replied, after an attempt to find my voice once more. "What the devil is _that_ doing there?"

He raised his head at last and scanned the room with a bemused gaze. "What is what doing where?"

"That!" I persisted, pointing to the head, which seemed quite suddenly vaguely familiar to me. I was sure I had seen the plump, slightly supercilious features before somewhere. "Where in God's name did it come from?"

"Oh, this?" Holmes discarded the newspaper and lifted the head without a trace of distaste from the table. As he held it I finally realised that it was not a real, human head at all, but one from the waxworks – there was no bloody stump where it had been severed from the body, merely a wooden seating and peg to connect it to a frame. Holmes turned it and I recognised it as belonging to the broken model of George IV I had seen being moved in the corridor that morning. "Fascinating, is it not?" he asked.

Relief surged through me and I sat down limply at the table. "Miss Tussaud has lent it to you?"

"I have made a study of it for the past few hours, and I believe I can replicate the appearance of the wax sheen." Holmes, appearing in a rather macabre manner like an executioner holding up the head of his victim for the appreciation of a bloodthirsty crowd, carried the wax over to the mantelpiece and set it there amongst the litter of pipes and paper. It surveyed the room blankly, the hint of a disdainful smile upon its lips.

"Why ever should you wish to?" I asked in amazement.

"You will not have seen this article in the evening paper." Holmes placed the folded _Standard_ before me and pointed to a paragraph at the foot of the page. "It would appear that someone within Tussaud's is using the 'haunting' to their advantage."

The few lines told succinctly if somewhat sensationally of a ghost stalking the galleries of the exhibition, the author wondering finally if the spirit of Marie Antoinette was attempting to exact revenge upon her executioners. Beside the article was a large advertisement for Tussaud's.

"Piffle," I said. "Why should anyone believe such rot?"

"The great gullible public will, if not actually believe it, then at least be sufficiently intrigued to visit the exhibition and pay their two shillings to see the weeping queen. It will not matter to them that if she wished to revenge herself she would doubtless have done so far sooner than a century after her death, and would have more success haunting her old palaces in Paris," said Holmes.

"Then this story has been given to the press purely for publicity purposes?"

He looked thoughtful. "It is interesting, is it not, that despite Miss Tussaud and Mr Harrison having told very few people of their experiences, the tale still finds its way into the popular press."

"Well, surely someone on the staff saw the opportunity and took it. Publicity is publicity, after all."

"Yes, but Tussaud's have always been quite capable of ensuring everyone is aware of them – they have retained advertising space on the side of omnibuses for many years, for instance. Why should they be grasping at such a dubious opportunity now, and who upon the staff would have the knowledge and the connections to give such a story to the newspapers? That, I believe, is the key to the mystery." Holmes went to the door and took his hat from the stand on the landing. "I shall see you later. Mrs Hudson has trout for your dinner, I believe."

"Dare I ask where you are going?" I enquired. "Do you need - "

"Sit down and rest, Doctor. I will not have need of your companionship tonight." He smiled and shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with the disembodied royal head.

* * *

I did not see him again until the following morning.

Upon descending from my room I stepped out to buy a paper, and, my curiosity piqued, took a rather longer route than usual up to the Marylebone Road. To my surprise, given the relatively early hour, a queue had already formed outside the premises of Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum.

"It is incredible," I said as I hung up my hat and coat a few minutes later, "that so many people will believe such a ludicrous story!"

Holmes was at the breakfast table, smoking his disgusting early morning pipe and filling the room with a noxious fug. I immediately moved to open a window.

"The press is a valuable tool if one knows how to use it," he replied from behind the _Telegraph_. "For instance, if you turn to page six of your newspaper you may find something there to interest you."

"Really?" Intrigued, I sat down and turned the _Morning Chronicle_ to the right page. There appeared to be nothing of any particular significance to me until my eye alighted upon a short paragraph in the bottom left-hand corner. "'Madame Tussaud's Wax Exhibition is proud to announce that from tomorrow morning their permanent display will be enlarged to include a representation of the famous private detective Mr Sherlock Holmes.' Is this true?"

Holmes chuckled and lowered the _Telegraph_. "It certainly will be this evening."

"But you have always refused their overtures upon the subject, with good reason. What has happened to change your mind now?"

"Watson, Watson, do think for a moment. Have I given any sittings to a sculptor? Have you heard me mention anything of this matter until just now?"

"Well, no, but - "

"A wax portrait takes some time to accomplish, particularly those of such skill and delicacy as we observed yesterday. I very much doubt that anyone could produce an accurate likeness between the time the story was given to the press and tomorrow morning when the figure is to be displayed."

I frowned, hopelessly confused. "Then how - ?"

"I have a piece of work tonight which should see the solution to this mystery. I take it I can rely upon your support?" Holmes asked.

"Of course. But can you tell me nothing now?"

I have a few more enquiries I need to pursue, so I will say nothing more until tonight if you will forgive me. I will meet you at the rear entrance of Tussaud's at eleven o'clock – bring a dark lantern, and you had better slip your revolver into your pocket. I do not anticipate violence, but one can never be certain in these cases."

* * *

"Is that thing still there, Doctor?" Mrs Hudson asked a little later as I was leaving the house.

I regretfully informed her that it was – unable to spend the day alone in the sitting room with it, I had decided to retreat to my club. Holmes, of course, had vanished again, intent in his investigations.

"I will be informing Mr Holmes that until he removes that monstrosity from the house he'll be getting no service from me," declared our landlady, and from the steely glint in her eye it was obvious that she meant it. "Not one foot will I put over the threshold of the sitting room until it is gone. Very near frightened me to death last night when I came up to set the table!"

I could not argue with her, for I felt much the same about it myself. It was quite incredible the emotions stirred up by something which, if viewed prosaically, was nothing more than a glorified candle. I left her muttering to herself as she bustled away into her own domain, and spent a relaxing few hours in the masculine haven of the bar and the billiard room. It was mid-evening by the time I returned to Baker Street, and, predictably, there was no sign of Holmes. Even though I knew it was there, I could not help starting involuntarily when I caught sight of the head on the mantelpiece. I was by now rather hungry, and found myself wondering what I could do with it so that Mrs Hudson might relent and bring me my dinner.

The somewhat childish but satisfying idea of leaving it in Holmes's bed had just come to me when there was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson's voice could be heard through the wood. "Doctor? I will not come in, but there is a young lady come to collect the offending article."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." I fairly sprang towards the door, but was surprised when I opened it to reveal not the delicate, mousy Miss Madeleine Tussaud as I had expected, but a tall, willowy blonde with laughing brown eyes and a somewhat faded hat and coat.

Her gaze swept the room, and she smiled, seeing the head upon the mantelpiece. "I'm sure you would prefer it if I took that away, Doctor," she said, crossing the room to scoop it up and place it in a baize bag. "They do tend to unnerve those who aren't used to dealing with them."

"That is certainly true," I agreed, relieved to finally have the thing out of sight. "Thank you, Miss…?"

"Tussaud. Louise Tussaud. You met my sister yesterday, I believe." She held out a hand, and shook mine firmly. Her gloves, like the rest of her attire, were well-used and worn. I was beginning to get the impression that Louis Tussaud did not pay his children very much for their work.

"Oh, yes, of course. Delighted to meet you, Miss Tussaud."

"The pleasure is all mine, Doctor," she replied, adding as I opened my mouth to respond, "I won't stay, if you don't mind - I really must be getting back to finish up for the day. Do thank Mr Holmes for the wax he sent to me – I have been able to patch up the bullet hole in the forehead, and I believe it will do very well. I will ensure that everything is as he requested for tonight."

Puzzled, I thanked her on Holmes's behalf, and saw her to the door. Not for the first time, I wondered exactly what my friend could be planning.

I confess that, following an excellent dinner, I dozed off in front of the fire, the evening newspaper on my lap. Shortly before eleven o'clock Mrs Hudson was forced to wake me, evidently having been given instructions by Holmes, and she helped me on with my hat and coat, having already summoned a hansom for my short journey to the Marylebone Road.

"You will be careful, won't you, sir?" she asked as she saw me off from the doorstep. "I know what Mr Holmes is like when he gets an idea into his head."

As did I, of which I assured her. "There is no need to stay up to wait for us, Mrs Hudson. I doubt if we will be back before morning."

"Very good, Doctor. Do try to keep Mr Holmes out of trouble, if you can."

"I will certainly do my best." Knowing Holmes as I did, I had little hope of succeeding, but the words seemed to mollify her and she went back inside the house. I departed, it taking little time to reach my destination – I could quite easily have walked, but Holmes had been very precise in his orders, which I found pinned to my bedroom door that evening.

All was quiet around the museum as I was set down. I was paying off the cabbie when I was startled to hear a sharp hiss from behind me - turning warily, I found the familiar tall figure of Holmes waving to me from the shadows of the rear doorway, his hat pulled low over his face.

"Quickly, Watson," he whispered, his hand suddenly between my shoulder-blades and propelling me towards a dark square which I realised was the open door. On the other side stood Thomas Harrison, a half-shuttered dark lantern on the low table beside him.

"Holmes," I said as he joined us and Harrison shut and bolted the door behind him, "What - "

He held up a gloved hand. "I will explain when we are safely upstairs in the gallery," he murmured. "Not a word until then."

"But, Holmes - "

"Not a word. Lead the way, Mr Harrison."

This the night-watchman did, taking us up the same narrow staircase we had climbed the previous morning. I was grateful that the doors to the workrooms were closed, as the darkness and the dancing shadows made me feel absurdly nervous, and a multitude of glass eyes staring at me in such an atmosphere was not something I wished to encounter. After what seemed to be an interminable journey, we arrived in the Grand Chamber and wound our way stealthily amongst its dark occupants. The shadows thrown by the dark lanterns were even more unnerving here, and more than once I had to prevent a very unmanly cry from escaping my throat as I convinced myself irrationally that one of the figures had moved.

Holmes looked at me as I jumped for what must have been the fourth time, and arched an eyebrow. "Is everything all right, Watson?" he enquired, his lips twitching in obvious amusement.

I struggled to regain my composure. "Perfectly, thank you."

"Do not forget, my dear fellow, that it is impossible for waxworks to move."

I glared at him for throwing my own maxim back at me, and straightened my tie. "Now that we are here, precisely what is your plan of action?"

"Miss Tussaud has set everything up for you over here, Mr Holmes," Harrison called softly. As he lifted his lantern I realised that he was standing over towards the wall, not far from the alcove where the French royal family sheltered. The light glanced from a figure seated in a chair between Sir Robert Peel and Lord Tennyson, and to my amazement a very familiar silhouette was thrown onto the mirror behind. I looked to my left, expecting to see no one there, but Holmes was still at my side. He smiled.

"Excellent, Mr Harrison," he said, and started towards the apparition. I followed, and on closer inspection discovered the source to be the wax bust Holmes had brought from the continent three years before. Miss Tussaud had indeed mended the damage wrought upon it by Colonel Sebastian Moran and his airgun, and with no little skill fixed it upon a frame and dressed the whole in a passable approximation of Holmes's usual attire of black tailcoat and trousers, the tie as always tucked under the soft collar of the shirt. The figure sat, one arm resting upon the back of the chair, the head upon the hand, in thoughtful pose. It was also looking straight towards the model of Marie Antoinette. Holmes had also noticed this, and his smile widened. "That is perfect - an unrivalled view of their wax majesties."

"She thought you'd rather sit down than have to stand still for hours," Harrison said.

"Miss Louise Tussaud is a most considerate lady. I thank her for her foresight," Holmes replied, and turned to me. "No doubt you are wondering what this means, Watson."

"A little, though it is obvious that you have recruited Miss Tussaud the sculptress to assist in this plan," I said, to his surprise. "But what does it all have to do with the 'ghost'?"

"I hope, in a few short hours, to introduce you to her," he responded. "Until she makes her appearance, however, we have some tedious waiting ahead of us."

"But why all this…what is the purpose of this subterfuge? Surely we need only hide behind the figures and catch her as she enters the room?"

Holmes shook his head. "Subtlety is the key here, Watson. For more than a week she has believed she is unobserved as she makes her nightly visit. Therefore it is likely that she should immediately sense the presence of other living beings amongst the wax and retreat. We have to lure her out by making her believe that all is well."

"And that?" I enquired, pointing to the figure in the chair.

"When I left you yesterday morning, I requested that Mr Harrison here introduce me to Miss Louise Tussaud, having already questioned him about the various familial relationships within the business. Miss Louise is the elder sister, a very forthright young woman of considerable talent, but who also does not see eye to eye with brother Claude. I surmised that she might therefore be willing to assist in my little scheme – to my delight she was more than happy, and lent me the wax head you took such exception to. I in turn provided her with my wax from Grenoble, which she has used to great effect, as you can see." Holmes glanced at Harrison. "Have the staff all seen this model?"

The night-watchman nodded. "They were surprised, as they'd heard nothing about it, but Miss Louise told 'em it was a secret commission. Mr Claude was a bit put out – it's always him that sends the announcements to the press, you see, sir. He was angry that Miss Louise hadn't told him about it."

I was still hopelessly confused. "But how is this model to be of any assistance in catching the intruder?"

"Because, Watson, I intend to pose as my own likeness," said Holmes.

"Your – what on earth…." I stared as he removed his hat and muffler – in the light from the lantern his face was at last revealed to me, and what a ghastly countenance it was. He had not looked well lately, but in the glow he now appeared positively deathly, his skin pale and strangely dull, but with a sheen that was almost… "Waxen," I said, suddenly understanding the purpose of the head in our sitting room. He had been studying it to discover how he might use make-up to give himself the appearance of a wax dummy.

"Precisely," he said. "Now, if you will both help me to stow my wax self somewhere out of sight, I will keep watch here, while you patrol the building as normal. If I am correct, then our nocturnal visitor will appear between two and three o'clock, for that is when Mr Harrison is normally engaged in checking the ground floor. You, Watson, will be in the room directly across the hall by then, but take the utmost care to remain out of sight."

"Across the hall?" I repeated. "But surely that is - "

"The Horrors," said Harrison with an apologetic grimace. "Don't worry, Doctor, you won't notice 'em in the dark."

"That is very reassuring," I replied, unconvinced.

The next few hours were going to be long indeed.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Many, many thanks once again for such lovely reviews. I'm so glad you're all enjoying the story. :)**

**I'd just like to reinterate the disclaimer at the start, that the members of the Tussaud family who appear in this fic are my own creation and bear no intended resemblance to any of the real Tussauds, living or dead.**

**And now, Watson braces himself for a few hours in a place I know I wouldn't want to visit in the dark...**

* * *

**THE WEEPING WAXWORK**

**CHAPTER FIVE**

The time did indeed pass slowly.

With Harrison as my companion, the first stage of my vigil went well enough: having seen Holmes take his place in the Grand Chamber, I accompanied the watchman on his first round of the night. The building was large, empty and full of echoes, all of which served to place an added strain upon my already jangling nerves. It was quite ludicrous, but I could not rid myself of the sensation that someone was following me. How Holmes could sit, alone and unconcerned, amongst the waxworks I had no idea, and I found my admiration for his iron self-control growing once again. I knew that I could not have done it myself, and I was dreading my turn later that night.

We patrolled the offices, the workrooms and the storerooms (all of which I allowed Harrison to enter by himself, as I was embarrassingly afraid of what I might find) before making our way to the main foyer where I made the acquaintance of the night porter – a Mr Alfred Rigsby, late of the Metropolitan Police.

"Sergeant I was, sir," he said, offering me a mug of coffee from a thermos which I declined as politely as I could, having seen the condition of the proffered receptacle. "Let me go two years ago on account of my age and the fact I've lost me puff. Couldn't chase after the young ne'er do wells no more, you see."

"You're doing your duty here instead, eh, Alf?" said Harrison good-naturedly. "He's a rare watchdog, Doctor – raised the alarm quick as you like when a group of bosky lads tried to steal the queen's garters."

"Aye, aye, we caught 'em good and proper," agreed Rigsby. He peered at me a little myopically. "Are you a medical man, then, sir?"

"Retired army surgeon," I replied, bracing myself for the inevitable.

"Have you seen a doctor about that problem of your yet, Alf?" Harrison asked, cocking an eyebrow.

The older man shook his head. "Ain't had time, have I?"

"It's been a week, mate, you can let it go on any further without getting checked out."

"What exactly is the difficulty?" I enquired with a little trepidation. Long experience had taught me that once someone discovered the nature of my profession they were often frighteningly quick to trot out their ailments for my medical opinion. I sincerely hoped that Rigsby would not be one of these, or Holmes might find his plan derailed by a persistent and garrulous patient.

"He keeps falling asleep," said Harrison.

"That's not so unusual."

"No, sir, he falls asleep on duty. Don't you, Alf?"

The porter nodded. "It's never happened to me before. Night duty's always been my lot, even when I was in the force – been doing it regular for nigh-on thirty years. Just this week, though, I've been nodding off halfway through the night. When I do wake up it's a real effort to open me eyes."

"Do you get enough sleep during the day, before you begin your shift?" I asked.

"A good seven or eight hours, like clockwork. Once I'm home I can fall asleep at the drop of a hat, but I ain't used to it happening on duty, sir."

I found myself frowning. "And you eat regular meals? You take plenty of exercise?"

The porter smiled. "I live in Camden, sir, so I've a fair walk to work of an evening. I reckon that keeps me fit."

"Of course, of course. Well, it sounds as though this warrants further investigation," I said, admittedly somewhat perplexed. I could not smell alcohol on the man's breath, and there were none of the tell-tale physical signs which might point towards heavy drinking. I do not like a mystery any more than Holmes, and so I handed him one of my cards. "I am currently acting as locum for Doctor Clarke in Paddington. If you come along to the surgery in the next day or two I will make an examination and look into it further."

Rigsby thanked me profusely, carefully stowing the card away in his waistcoat pocket. Leaving him with his coffee for company, Harrison and I ascended the main staircase, a broad, sweeping affair like those found in the grandest of houses. The light from the lantern bounced back and forth across the gilded surfaces of the banisters. As I walked I became aware that I was dragging my steps. I immediately knew why: the time had come for Harrison to conduct me to my hiding place, the infamous Chamber of Horrors…

* * *

He assured me that it really wasn't as bad as it first appeared, but I confess I did not believe him.

Upon first sight of the place by the flickering glow of the dark lantern, I felt myself fully justified in this: depraved faces leered at me from the surrounding darkness; above my head a man swung from a gibbet, his features hideously contorted; just to my left some poor soul had fallen victim to the rack, another the thumbscrews, and yet more the sort of tortures one reads about in history books but hopes never to experience first-hand. All around were the figures of notorious criminals, the majority of which Harrison could put names to, and did so in an effort to reassure me. It did not work – the names only served to remind me that Holmes had figured in the foiling and capture of many of them, and, had they known of my presence, they would surely have been anxious to wreak some form of revenge upon me for my assistance in their downfall. No doubt, had anyone truly been aware of his appearance, Moriarty would have taken pride of place there, and with good reason.

"They won't do you any harm, Doctor. All they are is tallow and wood, when it comes down to it," said Harrison, knocking his knuckles against the man on the rack and smiling with satisfaction as the torso replied with a sharp sound which indicated it was hollow.

"That's very easy to say," I replied, trying not to look too closely at my surroundings. Having seen some real horrors, both on the battlefield and during my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I could not understand the public fascination with all things chilling and macabre. It has always pained me to think that there is the capacity within the human soul to derive entertainment from the suffering of others, both real and imagined.

Harrison led me through the cavern – for such it was, with what appeared to be flagstones underfoot and walls which gave it the appearance of a vault – until he came to the exit, where he stopped. To one side of us was a guillotine, its occupant still thankfully in possession of his head; to the other the body snatchers Burke and Hare, a Hessian-wrapped bundle carried between them. "If you have a seat here, Doctor, you'll be able to see if anyone enters the gallery," the night-watchman said helpfully, moving a chair away from the wall for me. "There's always an attendant on duty in here, just in case anyone's overcome – that's where they sit. You can see the landing, but no one can see you if you keep your light shuttered."

I was not entirely sure which would be more uncomfortable: sitting in the glow of the lamp with things leering at me from the shadows, or remaining in the dark, imagining that they were doing so. Since Holmes's instructions were quite clear upon the matter, I had no choice but to submit to the darkness. I found it ironic that I was the one stuck here when he would no doubt have appreciated this particular part of the exhibition.

Before he left, Harrison withdrew a hip flask from his pocket and offered it to me. "Something to keep out the cold, Doctor?"

I accepted gratefully before I realised that the content of the flask was not brandy but gin. I knocked it back; trying to ignore how much my hand was shaking, and then fell to coughing as the spirits burned the back of my throat. My eyes watering, I handed him back the flask, but he closed my fingers over it.

"Looks as though you need it more than me, sir," he said, peering at me in concern. I could not blame him – I must have looked decidedly unwell, and not just from the effects of the gin. "I'm off to check on old Boney now – are you sure you'll be all right?"

I could do little more than assure him that I was quite able to take care of myself, hoping that I sounded convincing. He did not look as if he believed me, but he departed, taking his light with him and leaving me quite alone in the cold, curiously dank chamber. As he moved away, I caught sight of a shelf behind the guillotine, half obscured by the grotesquely lolling figure of Marat in his bath, Charlotte Corday's dagger protruding from his chest. Upon the shelf, I managed to glimpse as the light receded, were two heads which must be those mentioned by Madeleine Tussaud of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI taken after their deaths. I found it curious that there was more than two feet of empty space upon the shelf, and small white cards affixed to the edge, suggesting that more heads usually stood there. But if that was the case, why had they been removed, and where were they now?

* * *

I freely confess that the next two hours rank as possibly the longest of my life.

Forbidden light, I could do little more than sit and become prey to my rather colourful imagination as it took hold of my uncomfortable surroundings and twisted them for its own nefarious purposes. Unable even to see my watch, I had no concept of time, and the more I wished my ordeal to be at an end, the further the minutes seemed to stretch.

I am not a fanciful man, and I would hope that I have my share of courage, but there were moments during that lonely vigil when I became convinced that something truly horrible was reaching out of the claustrophobic darkness towards me. My eyes had adjusted enough for me to be able to discern the grotesque figures of my unwished-for companions, and I felt to my great shame the icy fingers of terror crawling their way up my spine.

Truly, had I been able I would have flung the door wide and run from the room, anxious to put as much space as possible between myself and the waxworks, but I had agreed to help Holmes in his plan and I would not jeopardise it by going back on my word. I have endured much for my friend, but this would rank as one of the worst experiences I had undergone on his behalf.

Before long I convinced myself that I could hear voices: mutterings, and then moans accompanied by the clanking of chains. I thought that I saw from the corner of my eye the hanging man sway slightly in a nonexistent breeze, his slack jaw stretching in a hideous parody of a smile. Before me the blade of the guillotine loomed out of the darkness, poised to fall. I could hear the creaking of the rack as it was turned the groans and cries of anguish from its poor victim. Surely, were I to remain there for long I would go mad with the suggestion, insane from the creations of my own mind. For the first time in my life, I found myself cursing the imagination upon which I prided myself and which Holmes routinely mocked as my 'romantic nature'. There was nothing even remotely romantic in the impressions my mind was presently conjuring, and I fervently wished for a way to shut it off.

I had heard of young men who laid bets that they would not be able to spend the night in the Chamber of Horrors, but I was not aware of anyone who had ever done so successfully. This fact did not surprise me in the least. I had been there little more than an hour and already I wondered how much longer I would be able to stand it.

* * *

Time passed gradually. I have no idea how long I spent in that dreadful place before I at last became aware that the footsteps just on the edge of my hearing were real and not yet another product of my over-active imagination.

Unaccountably relieved, I got stiffly to my feet and moved a little closer to the door in time to see a small figure muffled in a cloak making its way towards the door of the Grand Chamber. Harrison had not returned, evidently making his second round of the building, and so, taking up my lantern and patting my pocket to reassure myself that my revolver still nestled there, I stealthily made my way out into the gallery as the door shut behind the nocturnal visitor.

I got no further than the doorway, forced to stop almost immediately and press myself against the wall, as a second figure followed the first: a rather taller, stockier silhouette in an overcoat. For a moment I held my breath as he passed me, but whoever it was paid me no attention, pulling open the door and slipping inside. I waited ten seconds before moving to do the same. As I did, however, a hand descended upon my shoulder and I would have cried out had not another clapped swiftly over my mouth to muffle the sound.

"It's all right, Doctor, it's me," a voice I belatedly recognised as Harrison's hissed in my ear. I nodded and ceased my automatic struggles, grateful to be released.

"I followed him up the stairs," the night-watchman whispered. "Old Rigsby's asleep again – I can't wake him."

It struck me that the porter's slumbers were incredibly convenient to the intruders, but I had no time to consider the circumstance further. "There are two of them," I said softly. "Did they come through the main door?"

"Must have done – Mr Holmes bolted the back entrance himself."

Concern hit us both at the same moment, and despite the darkness we exchanged a glance.

"Holmes!"

He had been expecting a single female – this unknown man could ruin the whole carefully-laid trap. Without waiting for Harrison, I was across the hall and turning the door-handle before I was even aware of what I was doing.

Before I could open the door more than an inch, however, I was brought up short by voices coming suddenly from the room beyond. The first speaker was the woman – she was young, and to my astonishment I realised that the voice belonged to Miss Madeleine Tussaud. It was quite clear that she was more than a little distressed, for it shook and wavered, sounding almost on the verge of tears.

"No, Claude!" she exclaimed. "I won't do it, not any more. Not now Mr Holmes is involved. I know what you said, but it's not right! It's not…_morally_ right to do this."

Her companion, a man a little older, said angrily, "You know why we're doing this, Maddie. It's for the business, for Papa, for all of us! What will we do if this place goes down? We'll all go with it, be on the streets. What harm's a little deception? It's not hurting anyone."

"But all those people who came today…so many of them, and we took their money under false pretences! Even great-grandmére would never have done anything like this."

The man – Claude Tussaud it would seem – laughed harshly. "Don't be naïve, Maddie! She used to claim that half the French nobility were her patrons, and conveniently most of them weren't alive to contradict her. How do we even know her claims that she knew the royal family were true? Great-grandmére was an expert in exaggeration – how is this any different?"

"Because Mr Holmes knows what we're doing, that's why! When he came yesterday he searched this room and he found something, I know he did! He's bound to tell Papa, and then where will we be?" Madeleine asked. "I wish you'd never made me ask Papa to consult him. Why did you do it?"

"To bring in more paying customers, of course. If the world's most famous detective is on the case, it makes the public even more interested! You know how Louise and the others lap up the stories in _The Strand_. That's why she's been working on that likeness all this time in secret, the scheming little…"

"You were a fool, Claude. He sees everything – we'll be ruined!"

"Oh, for the love of God, Maddie, it's only a harmless little deception - " Claude said, exasperated, but she cut him off, crying,

"I don't care! I won't have anything more to do with it. You can be the one to play the 'ghost' for a change!"

Small feet pattered towards the door and Harrison and I hurriedly drew backwards lest we be seen. The sound of breathless sobs reached our ears as she came towards us.

"Maddie!" Tussaud shouted. "Don't be so – oh, good God!"

The footsteps stopped abruptly. We waited, uncertain how to act. I was torn - should we confront the pair, or was Holmes intending to make a move himself? This situation was completely unexpected.

Before we could even consider what to do, however, there was a scream of sheer terror from inside the Grand Chamber, followed the unmistakeable thud of a body hitting the floor.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you once again for those wonderful reviews! They are greatly appreciated, and I'm glad everyone's been enjoying this story so much. It's been a lot of fun to write. It was originally intended to be a round six chapters, but the ending ran away with me somewhat and so has become a separate epilogue. :)**

**For disclaimers etc see Chapter One.**

* * *

**THE WEEPING WAXWORK**

**CHAPTER SIX**

"Watson!"

Holmes's urgent voice galvanised me into action. I threw open the door and leapt forwards. In a moment my revolver was in my hand, and I took a firm grip upon it, announcing to the room,

"I would ask that everyone remain quite still. I am armed."

"Bravo, Watson," said my friend in that familiar sardonic tone of voice, "but I think the situation is under control. If you would be so good as to put the weapon away, I have need of your medical expertise."

I unshuttered the dark lantern and moved across the room to his side. Behind me Harrison lit a taper and touched it to some of the many candles in the room, bathing us in a flickering orange glow. "You're not hurt?" I asked anxiously.

"No, not at all. Miss Tussaud requires your assistance, however. I am afraid that I startled her somewhat when I caught hold of her arm as she passed me just now."

"Holmes, that was rather unfair of you," I scolded as I crouched down beside him. Miss Tussaud lay in a crumpled heap upon the expensive carpet at Lord Tennyson's feet, her face chalk white. I checked her pulse and found it to be beating strongly – as she appeared to have no difficulty in breathing; I diagnosed a simple faint, nothing more. Holmes suddenly 'coming to life', as it were, must have frightened the poor girl to death.

"My apologies, my dear fellow. You know I can never resist a touch of the dramatic," Holmes replied, sounding utterly unrepentant.

"What the devil is going on here?" demanded Claude Tussaud from behind. For a brief moment I had forgotten about him, and turned to see a tall, rather heavily-built young man with a shock of fair hair and more than a passing resemblance to his sister Louise. He stared at Holmes in amazement that quickly transmuted into anger, and his powerful hands curled into fists. "Mr Holmes? What is the meaning of this charade?"

Holmes uncurled himself and straightened to his full, impressive height, standing his ground before this perfect example of youthful aggression. "That is precisely the question I would like to ask you, Mr Tussaud," he said calmly, looking the young man directly in the eye.

"You are trespassing upon private property, sir. It will be no trouble for me to call the constable - "

"Oh, dear, Mr Tussaud." Holmes tutted, shaking his head. "That is an admirable attempt, but it really will not do. I have been in this room for the past three hours, and I observed the entry of your sister and yourself. I have been privy – as, I am sure, has Doctor Watson here – to the interesting discussion in which the two of you have just been participating."

Tussaud's expression slowly changed once again, this time into disbelief mixed with another emotion. Was that fear I saw spark in his eyes? "What has that to do with you?"

"It has everything to do with me. I have been engaged by your father to look into the business of his resident 'ghost'. The time, it would appear, has now come for explanations. However, I do believe it would be bad manners to proceed without Mr Louis Tussaud, which is why he should be arriving at any moment to hear what you have to say."

"My…my father?" Tussaud's face fell, and he looked suddenly even younger that I had at first thought, perhaps no more than five and twenty. The threat of his father's presence seemed to stop him in his tracks. His hands relaxed at his sides, and his shoulders slumped.

I took advantage of this to lift Miss Tussaud and lay her gently down upon one of the comfortable ottomans, removing my coat and folding it under her head for a makeshift pillow. Upon the cushions sat a wicker basket, and I gave an involuntary start as I realised it was full of bloodied heads – doubtless the missing heads from the Chamber of Horrors. I had no chance to make any comment upon this, as a moment later Miss Tussaud stirred, murmuring to herself. Her eyes opened and looked into mine in confusion for a moment before they shifted to something just behind me and another scream welled in her throat, a scream which was only just choked back as Holmes said,

"It is quite all right, Miss Tussaud, I am not a vengeful spirit or a waxwork come to life. I apologise for scaring you."

"Holmes!" I admonished him once again, glancing over my shoulder to see him standing there, his face still bearing the make-up which made him look like a waxen cadaver. No wonder the poor woman was terrified!

She stared at him, her eyes as wide as it is possible for a person's to be. "…Mr…Mr Holmes? But why…?"

"All will be explained in good time," I assured her, helping her to sit up. She was quite evidently used to grisly sights of another nature, as she did not even glance at the basket of heads beside her.

"Watson, I believe some brandy may be beneficial," Holmes remarked, raising an eyebrow.

In the absence of the suggested spirit, we made do with a nip of gin from Harrison's flask. When Miss Tussaud had stopped coughing and found her voice, she reached out and grasped my friend's sleeve.

"I am so sorry, Mr Holmes," she said breathlessly. "I would not have involved you for the world, but Claude insisted - "

"I understand, Miss Tussaud. It is not uncommon for a younger sibling to be bullied by an elder. When employment and livelihood are at stake, it is even more difficult to resist," Holmes replied. "It is quite obvious that your brother threatened you with dismissal if you did not agree to aid him in his plans."

Tussaud took a step forwards, belligerence momentarily returning. "Here, I've done nothing wrong! No one was hurt - "

"Perhaps not, but fraud is still a crime. You set out to deliberately deceive the populace in order to relieve them of their money. That, Mr Tussaud, is against the law," said Holmes, fixing him with a steely gaze. "Now, you will do me a great favour by sitting down there to await your father's arrival. It will ultimately be my decision whether to involve the police, but the money must be paid back."

Tussaud, cowed once more, had just taken a seat beside his sister but started up again at this pronouncement. "We could never afford it! The business would go under!"

"Which is of course the very circumstance you were trying to prevent. That should be a lesson to you: when one turns to crime the exact opposite of the desired effect often occurs," said Holmes. "Deception is a dangerous game."

* * *

Tussaud was quiet after that, apparently resigned to his fate.

I did feel a little sorry for him, as it seemed he had only been attempting to save the family business, but, as Holmes had said, a crime was still a crime and fraud a very serious one. The public would not take kindly to being duped.

It was half an hour later that Mr Louis Tussaud arrived, summoned by Harrison and not in the best of tempers at being woken in the early hours of the morning. He strode through the waxwork throng towards us, a dishevelled figure in hastily-buttoned clothing and a heavy overcoat, his white hair standing virtually on end. Behind him came the night-watchman and a yawning, heavy-eyed porter, evidently roused from his slumber.

"I hope you have a very good explanation for this, Mr Holmes," Tussaud senior declared as he reached our little group. "Surely the clearing up of such a trivial matter could have waited until the morning?"

"I regret not. The trivial matter has become a little more serious," Holmes replied. "Now that you are here, perhaps your son would be so good as to explain exactly when he came to the conclusion that he could boost your flagging attendance levels through deception."

"Claude? Madeleine?" Tussaud blinked as he realised his children were present. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I have caught your 'ghost', Mr Tussaud," Holmes told him. "There is no spirit of a long-dead queen roaming the exhibition after dark, merely your youngest daughter at her brother's behest."

Louis Tussaud stared at his son. "Claude? Is this true?"

The younger man nodded miserably. "I did it to save the exhibition."

"I don't understand – the business is doing well. You told me only last week that Percival had reported a thirty percent increase in attendance!"

"Those were the figures for the last six months. We did well over the Queen's jubilee, but numbers have fallen off again, sharply, since the end of the summer. We are barely scraping the running costs at present, and by the end of the year if figures do not improve we will have to consider halving the size of the exhibition to cut down on wastage." Claude looked up at his father. "I did not know how to tell you, and then you went on that trip to Paris. I was becoming desperate."

"And so you hit upon the idea of creating a curiosity to bring in the public," I said.

"Yes. It seemed harmless enough – my great-grandmother would frequently manipulate public attendance by declaring that she would stay in a town just one more week before extending the run to apparent popular demand when the public came flocking to her door. I saw no harm in a little…bending of the truth. All great showmen have done so in the past."

"Unfortunately for you, the deception began to run out of your control when Mr Harrison heard your sister crying in the gallery one night," said Holmes. "She was upset at the thought of losing her job and her home, a consequence you pressed upon her and which affected such a nervous young lady far more that it did your sister Louise. She told you to stop being so melodramatic, did she not?"

Claude glared at him. "Lulu has no sense of uncertainty. Should she lose her position here she could make a living from her sculpting, but what have those of us without such obvious talents to fall back on?"

"You suggested something of the scheme to her, on a purely hypothetical basis?"

"Yes." The young man ran a hand through his unruly hair. "She told me I was hare-brained and would come a cropper if I tried it."

"She was right," his sire said, unconsciously mimicking the gesture. "Whatever possessed you to do it, boy?"

"I've seen the accounts – Percival showed them to me in detail while you were away. The last Napoleon purchases put us even further into debt, and the cost of the renovation of this room was astronomical. There was no possible way for us to continue as we were, not without a spectacular increase in visitor numbers. Others knew it, too – I have had an offer for the firm." Louis Tussaud's eyes widened, and Claude nodded. "Yes, Papa. Others have been watching and are waiting to step in."

The older man bristled, drawing himself up to his full height, what little there was of it. "This business has always been kept within the family," he declared. "We need no outsiders!"

Claude sighed. "Yes, Papa, we do, if we are to survive into the next century."

There was a pause, during which one could have heard a pin drop on the other side of the building, before Tussaud sat down heavily upon the ottoman beside his children. The basket of heads was at his elbow, but he did not even register it. I could not help but wonder how many weeks, months or years of working in such a profession it would take to remain unmoved by a basket of severed heads, and ultimately decided I did not wish to know.

When nothing more was said for some time I turned to Holmes, asking, "How did you know all this?"

My friend smiled, happy as always to explain his deductions. "The fact that the 'ghost' appeared during the early hours but the porter had apparently mentioned no signs of any intruder gaining access to the building first alerted me to the probability of someone on the staff being responsible for the deception. As the only two people with keys to the main doors I was able to narrow my suspicions down to either Mr Louis or Mr Claude Tussaud." He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his silver cigarette case. The three Tussauds looked on in trepidation as he tapped one out upon the lid, struck a match and lit it, but he took no notice, inhaling an appreciative lungful of smoke. "It was possible, though highly doubtful, that Mr Louis Tussaud would agree to his daughter's request to consult me were he behind the scheme, which left Claude. Miss Louise Tussaud was most helpful with information about the various familial relationships within the clan – I sought her out after discovering the footprint beneath Marie Antoinette's dress yesterday."

"The 'Miss Tussaud' with whom you needed to speak was Louise, and not Madeleine! Presumably you wished to check upon the size of her feet?"

"Excellent, Watson. As you no doubt saw when she came to collect the wax head from Baker Street, Miss Louise is a lady of statuesque proportions – the delicate footprint we saw could not possibly belong to her. This of course left Miss Madeleine as the only possible suspect, Claude being unmarried and there being no other woman in a prominent position within the business. I was now left with the possible motive for the deception, and there once again Louise was most assiduous. She told me that her brother had been enquiring about the manufacture of false tears from glycerine only a few days before the 'ghost' made its first appearance. This circumstance made her suspicious that he might be trying the scheme he mentioned to her, but with Mr Tussaud senior away in Paris there was little she could do without either confronting him or laying wait in the gallery all night. This gave me an idea, and she was more than willing to assist me in my plan." Holmes paced the floor as he spoke, weaving in and out of the dummies. With the waxen make-up still in place he did indeed give the impression of one of them come to life, but for the cloud of blue smoke which surrounded him. "In the meantime, a visit to the offices of _The Evening Standard_ confirmed the identity of the person who had provided the article about the ghost which appeared in its pages. A consultation with a contact in the city was most enlightening with regard to the ultimate motive: he informed me, confidentially, that while it was not widely known outside, within the Square Mile it was obvious that Tussauds were in trouble financially and offers were on the brink of being made. Several eagle-eyed investors have been anxiously watching for some weeks to see which way the wind will blow."

"Good God." Tussaud slumped in his seat. "My own business failing and I had no idea. Why did you not tell me?"

"We tried, but you have been so busy in Paris we have never been able to organise a meeting," said Claude. "Percival has been trying every economy he can, but the business continues to suck in capital with little return. The world is changing – the public do not need us as a three-dimensional newspaper any more. We must change with it; radically overhaul the exhibition, if we are to survive."

His father shook his head. "That it should come to this, after all my grandmother went through."

"She knew the value of constant change, of the public's desire for novelty. That is how she kept the business going all those years. We need her now."

Holmes took another turn around the chamber, and stopped before the French royal family, aloof in their alcove. I saw that Marie Antoinette's eyes were dry. "It was, of course, the family connection with the Revolution and the impending anniversary of the queen's execution which caused you to base your scheme around Marie Antoinette, was it not?" he asked Claude.

The younger Tussaud nodded. "She has always been popular with visitors. The public love a good tragedy, particularly one concerning a beautiful woman."

"So, having illicitly obtained the glycerine for the tears, you enlisted the help of Madeleine by preying upon her vulnerability. You and Louise are too alike in temperament and she would stand up to you, but Madeleine is timid by nature and easy to manipulate. It was she who entered the building with your key, you having first ensured that Rigsby the porter was sleeping soundly and Harrison occupied with his patrol of the working areas."

"Of course!" I cried. At Holmes's words the solution to Rigsby's mysterious ailment finally fell into place in my mind. "The coffee!"

The porter stared in astonishment. "You mean that when you offered to fetch me a drink, Mr Claude - "

"He slipped a sleeping powder into your flask. That is why you were so sluggish when you woke," I explained.

Claude groaned and sank his head into his hands. "There was no other way to keep him in ignorance – he never leaves his booth unless there is an alarm."

"I do not believe what I am hearing," muttered his father. "My own children…"

"I am not proud of my actions, Mr Holmes," Claude said, raising his head once more to look directly at my friend. "I am not a brave man. I have little financial acumen, and so a more prosaic solution was out of the question. I did what I believed I had to do to save our livelihood."

"Unfortunately, the scheme collapsed when you exhorted your father, through Madeleine, to retain me to investigate the bogus hauntings," Holmes replied, looking down at the young man with disdain. "Presumably you though that my association with the story would increase public interest, especially if Watson here were ever to include it in one of his chronicles."

Claude nodded miserably. "I confess that I did not properly consider the implications, being unaware of the true extent of your deductive powers. I did not realise you would be quite so thorough in your investigations."

"But your sister Louise, a devotee of Watson's stories, did. She tried to tell you but you dismissed her concerns. You should have listened to her."

Silence once again descended upon the Grand Chamber, hanging heavy in the air. This time I did not wish to be the one to break it. The Tussaud family seemed thoroughly crushed. Despite Holmes's obvious anger at being used in such a manner by Claude, I could not bring myself to feel contempt for the two siblings. When faced with ruin, do we not do all we can to survive?

"There is one matter left to discuss," Holmes said at last. All eyes turned to him in surprise.

"What is that, Mr Holmes?" Louis Tussaud asked, confused.

"The question of whether or not the police should be involved."

The director's eyes widened, and he started up from his seat. "Now, Mr Holmes, surely there is no need for that! A harmless deception -"

"Nothing less than fraud. The false story was knowingly placed in the newspaper by your son, and the people of London have been cheated out of their hard-earned money," Holmes said seriously. "The law does not take kindly to such behaviour."

"But surely, as no one was harmed…a little false advertising…"

"You planted a story about the display of your own likeness, Holmes," I pointed out. "That was a lie."

"Not entirely, Watson, as the likeness is in fact here. But it will not go on public display, having mysteriously disappeared in the night. The morning paper will have the report, and no harm will have been done in this instance." Holmes moved his cigarette to a hold between his index and middle fingers and turned back to Tussaud. "I will agree not to take the particulars of the case to Scotland Yard on the condition that all monies are returned from today's opening. You cannot profit from the lure of the public under false pretences."

Tussaud looked at his son, and the two exchanged a meaningful glance. After a moment, he nodded, resigned. "Very well, Mr Holmes. We are all in your hands."

"Then you have my word that, as long as my name does not appear anywhere in connection with the matter, it will go no further than these four walls." Holmes drew in more smoke and added, "I will tell you what to announce to the press."

He and the director, together with Claude, drew to one side, leaving me with the dejected Miss Madeleine. I did not know what to say to comfort her, and settled for merely sitting companionably at her side in case she wished to talk. As I sat there, however, I found my eyes continually straying to the basket of heads so incongruously left amidst all the opulence, and finally felt compelled to ask,

"Were these for your brother's Revolutionary coup de grace? Some dramatic show for the anniversary of the queen's execution?"

She blinked tear-filled eyes at the grisly objects for some moments before shaking her head.

"Then why were they removed from the Chamber of Horrors?"

"Louise must have left them there last night," Madeleine said quietly, as though discussing a basket of eggs. "She was going to clean them."

As she lapsed into silence once more, I found myself confirmed in my opinion that a waxworks was indeed a peculiar place.

_**To be concluded…**_


	7. Epilogue

**Historical Note:** Tussauds were taken over by outside investors in 1889, when the limited company that had been formed to run the business went bankrupt after two family members, unhappy with developments, withdrew their shares. Needless to say, no one ever considered duping the public in order to raise more cash, as my fictional Tussauds did!

Thank you to everyone who had taken the time to review. I'm so glad you've all enjoyed this story, as I've very much enjoyed writing it. I hope the epilogue lives up to expectations - it ran away somewhat and seems to have become my little homage to the comic scene at the end of Granada's version of _The Solitary Cyclist_, which was not much liked by producer Michael Cox but always makes me smile. :)

* * *

**THE WEEPING WAXWORK**

**EPILOGUE**

"It is a shame to see institutions change and fall before the march of time," I remarked two days later over breakfast. As Holmes had predicted, an article appeared in _The Morning Chronicle_ lamenting the theft of his wax likeness from Tussauds and wondering whether an associate of one of the 'many nefarious criminals the great detective has brought to justice over the years' was responsible. I was one of the few privy to the truth: that the bust from Grenoble was back in its trunk in our attic, and the newly repaired head of George IV had been reunited with my friend's 'body'. Another, more serious, piece was printed in several of the newspapers, announcing that, because of an administrative error which caused the story of the tears of Marie Antoinette to be given to the press, anyone retaining their entrance ticket from the 15th of October and who felt themselves to have been short-changed by their visit would be refunded in full.

"Such is the way of life," Holmes replied, engrossed in the morning's correspondence. True to my prediction, the wheels were beginning to turn once more and the table was already littered with discarded envelopes. This, coupled with the successful conclusion of a case, had swept away his black humour of the past few weeks as though it had never been. I will freely admit that I was filled with pleasure and relief, watching him root around amidst the letters and telegrams with a happy half-smile upon his face. The cure had again worked its magic, and Holmes was back with us once more. He seemed to be aware of my scrutiny, and after a moment he looked up, thoughtfully chewing the stem of his pipe. "It strikes me that Mr Micawber's principle holds true even when applied to established businesses: 'Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen ninety six, result: happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result: misery.'"

I looked at him in surprise over the rim of my coffee cup. "I thought you disliked Dickens because you find him too sentimental?"

"Watson, Watson," said he with an exasperated roll of the eyes, "In order to pronounce it such surely I would have had to read some of the mawkish drivel first?"

I could not argue with that. Instead I said, "What will Tussauds do?"

"Accept one of the offers from the city. They can do nothing else. A fresh injection of capital and some new ideas is what such an institution needs when it has been in the hands of one family for so long."

"You sound as though you have been talking to Mycroft."

He exhaled a cloud of noxious smoke and I tried not to cough. "It was he who pointed me towards my city contact. Brother mine has feelers everywhere."

"They will have to make changes."

"That is no bad thing. Jettisoning the figures which have lost all public interest will be a start. I have also suggested to Miss Louise Tussaud that she obtain photographs of James Kettering before his trial next week. There will be a huge amount of public interest in the case, as well as press attention, and the man is so vain he will no doubt be overcome at the thought of being immortalised in wax," Holmes remarked, unfolding _The Times_.

"But Kettering is a murderer thrice over!" I exclaimed, appalled. "He did away with his wife, their child and the youngster's governess!"

"Horror sells, Watson. Why else would they publish so many of those penny-dreadfuls? The public has a macabre fascination with such things."

"I have had quite enough of them lately to last me a lifetime," I said with a shudder, recalling my time in the Chamber of Horrors. I could not, however, disagree with his pronouncement, and sighed. "It is a depressing thought all the same."

"Then allow me to cheer you up, my dear fellow." Holmes smiled around his pipe. "I have here - "

A knock at the front door interrupted him, and barely two minutes later the sitting room was invaded not, as expected, by Mrs Hudson, but a small man with a waxed moustache, a pearl grey suit and immaculate spatterdashes. He tipped his hat to me as the boisterous white dog he held on a lead jumped upon the sofa and announced its presence with a high-pitched yapping.

"My apologies for disturbing your breakfast, Monsieur Holmes," the little man said, and the dog barked again as if in agreement.

"What can I do for you, Monsieur Hergé?" Holmes enquired, eyeing the rather fluffy and ridiculously clipped animal with distaste as it attempted to lick his hand. "You would appear to have located your errant canine."

"Mais oui," Hergé replied, smiling beatifically. "I merely wished to thank you for directing me to Scotland Yard last week. They were most helpful in locating Sheba."

"Really?" I cleared my throat tentatively. "Where was she in the end?"

"In a crate in Rotherhithe. She had been snatched by an international gang of dog smugglers. It happened that Inspector…Lestrade, is it? That the inspector had broken the smuggling ring and recovered the stolen animals. There among them was my Sheba – she was waiting for me at the police station."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "No doubt she had much to tell you of her experiences. Perhaps she could dictate them to Watson here – _The Strand _is always on the lookout for sensational literature."

Hergé looked at him in consternation for several moments before the smile spread over his face once more. "Ah, bon. You are teasing me, monsieur. No matter. I just wish to thank you for directing me to the one man in London who knew Sheba's whereabouts. I am most grateful to you, most grateful." He caught hold of my friend's hand just as Sheba was trying to run her rough pink tongue over it once more, and shook it enthusiastically. I am not sure which contact made Holmes look more uncomfortable, that of man or dog.

"You are quite welcome," he said, trying to free his hand and giving me a pleading glance which I, amused, ignored.

"I will tell everyone that you are quite the magician, non? In thanks here are two free tickets to our next performance – Sheba will sing for you. What would be your choice of song?"

I sniggered at this, and was forced to turn it into a cough as Holmes fixed me with a glare and said, "Watson is the fount of knowledge when it comes to the popular classics. I am afraid my tastes extend merely to a little German violin music."

Hergé looked at me expectantly, and I found myself having to quickly think of something. Sheba sat up, her paws on the back of the sofa and her tongue lolling from her mouth, indicating an imminent switch in her attentions from Holmes to me.

"I…oh. Er…_The Boy I Love Is Up In The Gallery_?" I suggested rather lamely trying and failing to think of a popular song appropriately connected with dogs. Now it was Holmes's turn to snigger.

Hergé clapped his dainty hands together. "Ah, an excellent choice, and one of Sheba's favourites. We will see you tonight, n'est ca pas?"

"Of course," I said, trying to keep a straight face at the image of a poodle howling Marie Lloyd's signature tune. Holmes made a strangled noise and buried his face in the newspaper.

I was showing Monsieur Hergé and Sheba to the front door when the little Frenchman slapped his forehead and pulled a crumpled envelope from his inside jacket pocket.

"I almost forgot. Inspector Lestrade, he send this note to Monsieur Holmes. Will you make sure he gets it?"

I promised that I would, and watched the bizarre couple make their way down the street before returning to the sitting room and sliding the envelope onto Holmes's empty plate. This done, I took my own seat once more and reapplied myself to my breakfast, watching him from the corner of my eye. It was quite five minutes before he finished the criminal news, folded the paper and reached a hand for the letter opener. The envelope contained a single sheet, which he read in silence before throwing his head back with a great shout of laughter and pushing the note across the table to me.

It contained a few sparse lines in Lestrade's familiar handwriting.

_Mr Holmes_, it read without preamble, _this note is merely to warn you that if you send one more distressed pet owner in my direction I will give Doctor Watson the full particulars of the case involving the gondolier, the philatelist and the stuffed gnu to do with as he will_.

"The gondolier, the philatelist and the snuffed gnu?" I repeated incredulously.

"It is an idle threat," Holmes said, airily waving a hand. "That case would show him in an equally poor light."

"Ah," I responded, waving the note at him, "but now I know about it I may not stop asking for the particulars. You might _have_ to tell me eventually, just to keep me quiet."

He stopped smirking and stared at me. "You would not."

"Possibly. What is my silence worth?"

In my other hand were the tickets for Hergé's performance, and I waved them at him. His face became even paler than usual. "Watson, you would not dare…"

"Oh, come along, Holmes, it is surely the least you can do for the poor man after treating him in such a manner."

"I would rather - "

"Rather what, old fellow?" I enquired, raising an eyebrow of my own. "Rather tell me about the - "

He sighed. "What time is the performance?"

I checked the tickets. "Half past seven at the old Imperial Theatre."

"Very well." Holmes got up from the table and drifted over to the mantelpiece, where he busied himself refilling his pipe from the Persian slipper. "I wonder," he said after a few moments, "whether it is customary in these situations to throw flowers or dog biscuits?"

We looked at each other for a long moment, each daring the other to crack first. I admit that it was I who broke, collapsing into howls of laughter, with Holmes not far behind me.

Mrs Hudson chose that moment to enter the room with the announcement that a new client was below requesting an interview, and I am certain that she believed us both to be either ill or run mad, which only served to increase our mirth. Thankfully we managed to compose ourselves by the time the Honourable Audrey Normington entered the room to tell us of her concerns for her missing sister, but that is another tale entirely…

**FIN**


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